


The World Beyond

by Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Running Away, Seventh Age, Worldbuilding, shitty parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun/pseuds/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun
Summary: Samuel Keaton is little more than a kid. He's never known any place other than Ashdale -- but the tales told of the outside world by the ancient World Guardian Doktin intrigue him. He's desperate to get off the island, and when Doktin unexpectedly goes missing, he seizes his chance and runs away to find her---- only to find himself completely out of his depth, in a Seventh Age world that is miles away from anything he (or we) might be used to.This is a new age of Gielinor, discovered through the eyes of a young adventurer who hasabsolutely no idea what he's doing.(Set in the same universe asThe Wind and the Waves, not long afterThe Beach and the Breeze.)





	The World Beyond

Ashdale, Samuel thought, was the most boring place in the world.

The island was full of old people. Old people who'd had enough of being interesting, who'd come to the island to let the tide wash their interesting away. Adventure, battle, excitement? None of those on Ashdale. Sunny, boring Ashdale, where interesting came to die.

It was only thanks to Dot that Samuel even knew what interesting was.

"You know Charlotte Marshall?" she'd said once, in that cheeky whisper she used for saying things the islanders didn't like. (She used it a lot.) They'd been sitting on the shore, bare feet in the sand, letting the tide tickle their toes. "She was the last leader of the Kinshra. A fearsomely powerful mage. She broke the anti-teleportation wards used in her prison - and nobody ever figured out how. Then she altered her appearance with magic, crafted a new identity as an entirely different woman, and settled down to live here."

He'd stared, absolutely gobsmacked. "All that, and she just lives here? She sells milk at the market! You're telling me _she's_ a fearsome mage?"

"Why be a milkmaid when you could be a milkmage?" Dot laughed -- and it was contagious. Then he noticed her expression grow firmer: "She wasn't in the Kinshra by choice, you know. From what I hear, she was born into it. Her mother and father were both members of the order, so naturally they sent her to train with them. Then it became her life, and then... maybe this is the first time she's really lived a life of her choosing."

Samuel had reflected on that, staring across the ocean into the wind-stirred waves. He'd been born into this. Maybe someday he'd go the opposite way to Charlotte, leaving the island to live a life of _his_ choosing.

The stories Dot told him were often hard to believe. But from the way the islanders avoided her eyes, made sure to keep a safe distance from her, he knew she was someone to be believed.

"Who are you?" he'd asked once.

"Me?" She'd laughed. "Just some dotty old lady who loves the sea." Then she'd ruffled his scraggle of black hair, which always made him feel warm inside no matter how hard the wind bit.

* * *

She'd only ever stay on the island for a day. Samuel suspected that longer stays might risk the island's boredom getting to her.

She never promised she'd be back, but back she always was. Same time every month. He'd wait for her at the dock, she'd step off the ship draped in that cloak with the gentle green glow, and they'd walk. Usually along the beach, but sometimes she'd take him exploring. The caves below the island, she'd said, once housed thousands upon thousands of monsters. She'd been the one to slay them, she said, saving the island by doing so.

Samuel had thought something about the island not deserving it.

That cloak of hers was a fantastic thing. She could whisper to it, mould it in her hands and re-weave it, and it'd form into a bag that she could sleep in. Ashdale's weather was generally fair, so she'd never needed a tent; instead, she'd lie under the stars, peaceful in the open air. One night, Samuel had heard her arguing with the Mayor; words such as "private property" had echoed up to his window. He'd scurried out of bed to peek, to see what was going on; all he'd seen was the Mayor hurriedly leaving her well alone, and Dot going right back to her own peaceful sleep.

In the morning, she'd sail back on the earliest ferry that ran - there were rarely many people on the ship, but Hartman sailed it daily no matter what. He'd stand on the docks and watch it carry her away, and then he'd be alone for another month. Samuel Keaton, aged 15, youngest resident of the least interesting place in the world. Time for another month of being treated no different from Ruth Onwochei's pet poodle.

* * *

Hartman had been the only person to disembark. He'd noticed Samuel staring, and he'd shrugged. "No Dot," he'd said, stating the obvious.

Samuel stood there a little longer, as if waiting just a few minutes more would give Dot the time she needed to emerge as she always did. No luck. No Dot. Nothing to tide him over 

Perhaps she'd been a day late. Hartman's ship would make its next daily return from Taverthorpe, just as reliable as everything else on this changeless island, and Dot would arrive. As always. As he had constantly trusted her to, for as far back as he could remember.

No luck.

"It's a busy life that lady leads," Hartman said on seeing him waiting the next day, in that tone of half-hidden frustration everyone used when talking about Dot. "Perhaps that's what's keeping her. Who knows what she gets up to out there?"

Samuel had nothing to reply.

Seeing the look on his face, Hartman leaned down to meet the boy's eye level (though not far; he was growing faster with every day). "Tell you what, boy. When I'm next in Taverthorpe tomorrow, I'll ask around. See if anyone's heard where your Dot's at. That good?"

He nodded a little too quickly. 

"Good boy." Hartman patted him on the head and stood back up. It came off patronising, the way almost all the islanders were towards him, but at least Hartman had promised to do _something_ for him. Even if just to make him leave him alone.

Tomorrow came. A third and final time, Hartman stepped off his ship.

"She stays with a druid named Helix whenever she's in town," he said. "I sought him out when I was on shore, had a bit of a chat. He's had no word from her. No letters, no rumours, nothing." A sympathetic smile briefly flashed across his face. "Sorry, boy. Last thing you've got is hope. But just remember -- hope's a powerful thing."

Over the next few months, Samuel clung on to hope.

* * *

It had been eight months since Dot's last visit to the island.

Samuel would often sit by the shoreline, taking in the roll of the tide. It reminded him of those days with Dot, and even if she herself wasn't there, the deed itself still did something to soothe him.

"You're sitting in the sand again, aren't you?" his mother shouted out. "You'll have to wash the sand off yourself, you know! Now come here, you've got dishes to clean. Don't want to eat off mouldy plates at your party tomorrow, do ya?"

He'd prefer not to be at the party at all. His birthdays were always a nightmarish affair: prodded and poked and coddled and cuddled by seemingly thousands of old ladies, all commenting on how tall he'd grown or how thick his hair was or how big his hands were nowadays. Like he was some prized specimen of an animal, set to fetch a high price at market. His mother seemingly saved up sugar all year for this party, then dumped the year's supply in one cake; the result was barely edible, with one taste sufficient to send his brain into a stupor. And she made him eat _all_ of it.

Reluctantly, he removed himself from the comfort of sea and sand. Time to go back "home", and prepare himself for everything that would happen tomorrow.

Beach turned to thin grass, to a slightly sloping hillside; it was a short walk up here to his family's house. It seemed far too large for just himself and his mother -- the size of the place made him all the more lonely. Regardless, this was where he spent most of his time, dusting and scrubbing and sweeping and tidying on his mother's command. She alleged it would turn him into a "big, strong man", all the while lounging on a balcony out in the sun.

She was on that balcony when he entered, chatting with Agatha Langton from a few houses down. He couldn't quite hear the conversation -- something about Agatha's husband? Not particularly interesting, most likely. He made sure to make eye contact so she'd know he was here. There. Sickly smile from her in return, acknowledging his arrival. Now he could get to work.

A daunting tower of dishes awaited him in the kitchen. They'd never go through so many dishes if it was just the two of them at home, but his mother _always_ had guests over for dinner. Two, at the very least, going up to something around a dozen if there was some particularly good gossip on the go. They'd natter endlessly into the night, casting endless judgement on the other islanders -- and often on the people they'd had dinner with just the previous night. All the while, Samuel tried to vanish into his chair -- but his mother insisted it was rude to leave the table early, and insisted he stay to witness their spiteful chatter for as far into the night as it lasted.

It often felt like his mother was on a mission to wear him down into nothing.

Sixteen years old tomorrow. That was the age he'd be considered an adult and allowed to move out... in theory, anyway. Samuel _knew_ the judgement that would fall upon him if he had the audacity to live his own life and not look after his mother till the end of her days. Besides, where would he get the money for a house, what with his mother monopolising his every moment? 

He took a tea-stained saucer, to start with something small. Scrubber, soap. Agonisingly slowly, he managed to get the mark to fade.

One down. He didn't dare count the number he had left.

A dinner plate. The remains of Wednesday's roast clung stubbornly to the porcelain, and the formerly luxurious roasted smell had turned to something far fouler.

Why couldn't his mother do this? She claimed to be too old and fragile, but she had no problem with cooking everything that had dirtied the plates in the first place. No problem skewering it with a fork and shovelling it into her mouth, either. "Big, strong man" was one thing, but couldn't she use this work to keep herself active?

What if he simply left? And left her to it?

There was a plan beginning to form in his mind. Risky, dangerous, but... it would be freedom, for the first time in his life. He could _leave._ His birthday, for once, would not be marked by intrusive questions and unwanted manhandling, but by his long-awaited entry into the _real_ world. A whole world beyond the island, and not once had his mother let him visit!

It was about time. About time he got to do something for himself.

He was used to sneaking around this house silently. There were times when his mother would demand to not be disturbed; learning how not to disturb her had been a matter of basic survival. He knew where she kept her purse: there was a tiny alcove by her bed where she habitually left it. He'd been sent to fetch it a few times when being sent off to the market, but he'd always been careful to never take any more than she allowed him. He remembered making a mistake one time... and the punishment she'd given him for "thieving from your own mother". It hadn't even been intentional. This time, it would be, and he didn't intend to stick around for the consequences.

Once he'd stocked up on stolen money, he proceeded to his room. There wasn't much he wanted to bring; there wasn't much that he owned. But there was a small gift Dot had once given him: a scrap of woven _something_ , like Dot's cloak but with a paler purple glow. She'd told him that this was the easiest sort of energy to work with (though she'd never quite clarified what it was); she'd taught him a couple of tricks, like how to form it from a sheet into a bag through subtle manipulation of invisible strings. She'd done it as easily as breathing. He'd done it clumsily, but ultimately managed it. He'd practiced over time, and as such he was a little better now, forming it into a bag to store his money and a fresh set of clothes.

Finally, to the kitchen. He wrapped a loaf of bread in baking paper, then decided on a bunch of unripe bananas as well. That was about as much as he could bring without needing to cook anything; it would last him a day or two. He'd seek out the druid Helix for more.

He drew the energy of his bag closed, then tried an experiment, pulling out a pale stream of it and -- yes! -- a strap formed and flattened, long enough to stretch from his shoulder around his back. He brought it back round to the other side of the bag, focusing to fasten it. He hoped it would _stay_ fastened.

That should be enough. He'd have to sneak out the back and hope nobody saw him. Staying in the ship overnight might be tough, but it was that or wait until tomorrow -- and _all_ eyes would be on him tomorrow. There was a small forest that stretched across a good deal of the island. He reckoned he could run through that, and hope Alf wasn't out hunting... and didn't mistake him for a pheasant. From there it wasn't much distance to the docks, to Hartman's ferry... and to freedom.

He opened the door, and set off on his journey.


End file.
